Attachment Issues
by ashestoashesanddusttodust
Summary: SHIELD had no problems with undercover agents forming attachments on missions. Just so long as once the mission was over the agent understood that any attachments formed during it were over as well. Clint Barton tries not to form anything beyond workplace acquaintances when he joins the LAPD as Brian Gamble.


**Attachment Issues  
**

**A Word**: This is me rolling around in the two movies and attempting to not make too many embarrassing squeeing noises. Spoilers: I fail.

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Captain Thomas Fuller, LAPD. Born into old money and even older politics. Graduated top of his class in nearly every school he went to and fast tracked his way up the rank with ease that'd drawn more than a few suspicious looks over the years. Rumors of money greasing the tracks and good old boy strings being pulled behind the scenes were common and not entirely unfounded.

Nothing new or strange in the story. Until you ignored his rise and paid attention, real good attention, to the crimes under his watch.

Paid attention to the high numbers of arrests made and the low number of weapons and drugs reported impounded. The stellar track record of arresting local gangs and drug dealers, and their very low reported numbers of charges brought against the dealers from cartels or the gang members from international groups. Little discrepancies in the numbers and statistics that most people didn't pay attention to. The first warning signs of something truly corrupt and rotten.

How SHIELD got interested in a matter best left to IA wasn't something that Clint was paid to wonder. He did that for free. Loudly and often during the briefing leading up to his mission. Coulson's mild paper-pusher stare informed him how very little a shit he gave for Clint's complaining and to get his bags packed.

Clint spent the trip to California hoping AIM was involved somehow.

He found a studio apartment in a shithole neighborhood. The fridge was already filled with bottled lemonade and half-eaten Chinese food. Unobtrusively, on the bottom of each carton Natahsa's slanted writing labeled the dates each one had been bought. Clint heated up the one that looked newest, tossed his clothes around the apartment, noted the things that he hadn't brought but looked like his, and fell asleep in a bed that still smelled like the plastic it'd been wrapped in at the store.

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Fuller was reorganizing his department and Brian Gamble had come highly recommended from various enough sources that the man hadn't poked too hard at the background SHIELD had pulled out of their asses for Clint. He walked into the Metropolitan Division wearing a crisp uniform and trying not to itch the reopened holes in his ears.

There're a lot of starched uniforms and nervous young officers in the small room he entered. SWAT was a pipe dream for most of them, and Clint easily picked out the ones that had no chance. He ignored them and casually slouched next to a dark haired man with military written all over him who looked almost bored. "Hey."

The man, Street according to his nametag, took his time looking Clint over before giving his own nod back, "Hey."

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Training was a joke and Clint had to concentrate hard on not being too good. Had to remember to act like it was his first time doing certain things. Pull his shots just a little. Just enough to be remarkable instead of extraordinary. Remember to trip over his feet a little when throwing the other trainees around on the mat. Keep his movements to a slow jog when clearing buildings instead of his usual sprint.

It's an exercise in frustration and having to do it as part of a team was a small blessing, because he's so used to how things were with him and Natasha that the constant presence of the others made him fumble without thought. Brian Gamble got good marks in the training sessions and was chosen with a handful of others to work under Fuller's new Lieutenant.

Clint's not surprised when a grinning Street slouched next to him after the selections were made and gave him a friendly grin, "How about a beer to celebrate, man?"

"Fuck yeah," Clint grinned and his sentiment was quickly echoed by the other men who had made the team.

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It quickly became apparent that none of the men in SWAT follow up on their paperwork. Clint did a warrant raid that recovered a fugitive along with a truly impressive armory of weapons and ammunition. He gave a lowball estimate in the report he sent up after the bust.

Over a weeks' time he watched silently as that low number was bounced around and got lower and lower until the prosecution for the case only had possession of three unlicensed handguns to tack onto the man's list of crimes. A charge that was easily dismissed by the judge who was more intent on hammering the man for murder. No one from SWAT was called in to testify at all during the trial.

The weapons had already disappeared. Clint doubted they'd even made it into lockup after the SWAT team left the house with the fugitive in custody. There was no other reason why the evidence would be transferred between so many departments to scramble the paperwork before it all made its way back to Fuller.

It was a pattern that continued over and over again. Clint watched as weapons and drugs disappeared in the bureaucracy of the LAPD without a single alarm being raised.

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The bar was loud and almost as trashy as the shithole he lived in. The light was low and the bartender was selectively deaf/mute/blind for the right price. It's a sketchy as hell place for a bunch of cops to be hanging out in after work, but Clint only gave the guy's Brian's cocky ass grin when they grumbled about it.

"We found one of the AKs," Natasha giggled as she shifted in his lap. Taking a delicate sip of the flat hard-lemonade that she'd made him pay for before dragging him away from the others. Her hair was bubblegum pink and matched the rich looking clothes she wore like a second skin. Along with the coy way she slapped Clint's hands out from under her shirt she's the perfect picture of a rich daddy's girl going to the "bad" side to play a little. "Germany."

"Please tell me it's not Hydra," Clint groped her through her clothes. Counting how many weapons she'd brought with her to this meeting, and obviously enough that Street -meandering his way over- veered back around to get lost in the bar.

"I would," Tasha said, drawing her hot pink nails through the fringe of his hair. Scratching like her was a battered alley cat looking for treats. "But _someone_ made me swear to never lie to him."

"God _damn_," Clint swore with feeling and leaned forward to bury his face in the cleavage that her shirt left bare. Black lace scratched against his lower lip as Tasha continued to pet him. "Have I said how much I hate those fuckers lately?"

"Not since the last time they ruined one of your vacations," Tasha said as she unrepentantly plucked his beer out of his hand.

Clint allowed himself to rest against her for a few more minutes before Brian did something outrageous enough to get slapped and have the rich little girl bouncing out of the bar in a prissy huff never to be seen again.

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Clint started tagging everything.

Every weapon, wad of bills, or brick of coke got their own special low powered tracker. The money and drug trackers were almost useless. They got lost all too easily as the items were broken down, but lasted just long enough for SHIELD to map out the small players in the plot. Informants paid in hard cash for seemingly random rumors, or gangs given bricks shortly before they started something big and media attention worthy.

Something was going on, something too large and subtle for Clint to see in the position he was in. That was alright though. SHILED had analysts to do that work. All he had to do was keep feeding them the raw information, keep tracking down the threads Hydra had put down in LA.

"What the hell?" Street laughed as Clint changed out of a sweaty and slightly smoky smelling shirt. His eyes were trained on Clint's right arm. "Afraid you'll forget how to spell your own name?"

"Nah," Clint glanced at the jagua ink Natasha had spent last night placing on his body. He thought about telling the man it wasn't permanent. The light, blocky letters looked like the start of a tattoo though and he'd probably get more shit if he denied it. "Got it so your mother'd know which name to scream out."

"Asshole!" Street punched him hard as the locker room burst into laughter. Clint laughed as well and gave a mocking bow.

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Jim Street was a good man. Clint learned that slowly as he got a feel for the squad he was in and the two of them were thrown together more and more often. He learned that as he learned that some of the other guys he was working with weren't good at all.

Clint had already caught Morgan and Riley shifting bags of drugs around twice after a bust, and their paperwork never mentioned solid numbers. No matter how many times they'd been bitched at for it. Their names had also turned up several times in the trail of shuffled paperwork that the analysts had been crunching down looking for patterns.

Goose did the same thing, but in smaller quantities. Tasha had quickly confirmed the man wasn't part of the web they were after. He was just a cop selling on the side to supplement his income in one of the worst ways possible. Doler, the man's usual partner, was an idiot too wet behind the ears and awed of his position to do anything about it. Clint gave the guy three more months of exposure to Goose before he was doing to same thing.

Doley and Martin were sparkly clean in comparison. They were just the regular chest beating assholes that police departments always seemed to attract. High on the position they'd gotten and swaggering around like idiots. Clint ached some days to put them up against Natasha in a _real_ fight, but knew that'd never happen. Not unless something went horribly, spectacularly wrong.

Natasha had kicked him when he asked her about the probability of absolute catastrophe for the mission one night.

Street was an honest to god relief when compared to the rest of the squad he was on, and Clint didn't mind being partnered with him one bit. The man was also _good_ at his job, and Clint relished not having to hold back as much. With the other man's background he wondered why he was in the LAPD at all. A SHIELD recruiter really should have been the first thing he'd seen after his contract with the military was up.

"Hey," Street called out over the deafening fire of the indoor shooting range as they both stepped up to the line, "worst score foots the bill for dinner?"

"Why the fuck not?" Clint rolled his shoulders and drew. Firing slower than he'd like. He allowed himself only one bullet dead center on the target, and clustered the others loosely enough around it to look accidental. "I ain't going to argue if you want to waste your money."

"Fuck you, I can beat that," Street bluffed as Clint flipped the switch to bring the target in. Clint pulled it down and slapped it against Street's chest with a grin. Already attaching the next target as the man eyed the holes and was almost visibly regretting his bet.

"The fuck you can," Clint stepped back and mockingly waved Street up to take aim as the target reset.

To his credit, Street _tried_. Clint gleefully mocked him for the one stray round that fell just outside of the bull's-eye as he made Street pay for a monstrous pizza after their shift was up. Street was a good man, and that was why he let himself enjoy it without feeling guilty.

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They were in the bar that'd become "theirs" when familiar arms wrapped around Clint's neck and a sultry voice said in his ear, just loud enough for the others to hear, "Well hello there handsome."

It took everything Clint had not to give that cheesy line the beat down it so rightly deserved and instead turn a sleazy Brian Gamble smile on the woman as he snaked his arms around her. That struggle was the only reason why Natasha used that line and the wicked glint in her eyes as he let his hands wander down into dangerous territory proved it. "Hey, wanna fuck?"

Clint didn't flinch as Natasha's nails bit into the soft bits of his neck as she dragged him off to the dark hallway that led to the bathrooms. The both of them ignored the cacophony of catcalls from Brian's coworkers. Clint slammed the blonde woman up against the wall the second they're out of the light and devoured her showy moans in an equally showy kiss while very carefully not pinning her wrists in any way.

Natasha wrapped her legs around him and rewarded his regard by grinding down hard against his dick. Sadistic bitch. Clint shoved a hand up the scrap of cloth that was supposed to be a skirt, groping for the string of the thong he knew she was wearing, and stopped when he felt the scratchy line of stitches winding up the soft flesh of her inner thigh.

"You got an admirer," Nat said when he broke the kiss to give her a _look_. Her nails scraped harshly through his hair and down his neck. There'd be welts left there for days. It's a warning and an answer all at once. She won't talk about it and she's perfectly fine. "You seducing the innocents again?"

Clint buried a sigh in her neck as he bit a reprimand for the wound and the words into her skin. She let him get away with it.

He didn't need to look back to know what she was talking about. Street's eyes were a heavy weight against his back and impossible to miss. It was something that Clint had been ignoring for the better part of a month now. A hand that lingered to long, a stare that lasted just a hair too long, the way words seemed to twist in strange ways when they were alone together. Something that'd snuck up on him in the year he'd been working the mission. "Not really my type, and I don't think I'm his either. Maybe he's just got a thing for smoking hot blondes?"

Natasha bucked away from the wall and broke away with a smile that really didn't belong on her face. She slipped her hands into the front of his jeans and playfully pulled him into the men's room. Something was slipped into his back pocket, but Clint won't check what it was until he's alone in the apartment.

Natasha's laugh was close to her real one as he put her up on a sink. One hand sliding under the elastic of her underwear and the other carefully mapping out the extent of the stitches before he dropped down to his knees. Her next comment came out on a breathy moan, "You're such a liar."

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Brian bragged the whole next day about the busty blonde who'd choked on his dick until Street not so playfully threatened to put his face through three separate panes of glass. Clint made sure to needle the man about how much he obviously needed to get laid, and arranged another bar hop, loudly so the others could hear, with the sole goal of getting him sloshed and fucked.

Street nearly slammed his head through a locker for that, and Clint only cackled at the man's horrified look as blood started flowing from Clint's not-really broken nose.

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Fuller was not in on anything.

He's a gruff, privileged asshole who needs to get a reality check from the knuckles of a woman's fist, but he wasn't in on any of the deals happening. The man was a patsy. One who was getting suspicious of the numbers going wrong all on his own.

Clint watched as the Captain began requesting original copies of their reports. As he stayed a little later at night, and looked a little worn when Clint came in the morning. There were too many files on his desk most shifts, and the man started looking at all the men under his command with an assessing gaze that brought Coulson to mind.

Just a little bit.

It was a complication that he passed on with Natasha as she left the bed she sometimes shared with him before the sun had even rose.

"He could be useful," Natasha said as she managed to pull on the tightest pair of jeans Clint had ever seen without the aid of a crowbar. And without wincing. He was more impressed by that last bit.

"He could also wind up dead," Clint pointed out as he stretched out in the space that had opened up for him. Natasha tended to sprawl when asleep, and was not fond of stray limbs invading her space at night.

"I'll see what Coulson wants to do," she said as she stole the last edible bit of food from his kitchen. A muffin that he was mostly sure neither of them had purchased. "The analysts have been wanting him to bring in someone more organic to track some of the higher ups."

"Yeah," Clint closed his eyes and didn't hear her leave. He let himself drift in a half-sleep for five more hours before dragging himself up and into the station.

He was yanked into the locker room almost immediately by Street who hissed, "The fuck did you do, Brian?"

"You have no evidence, you can prove nothing!" Clint cocked an amused eyebrow at the man who didn't find the quip funny. "What's crawled in your panties?"

"The Captain," Street scowled. One hand reaching out to touch Clint's shoulder. Unconsciously, or Clint'd eat his favorite bow. "He's been spitting fire and yelling that you need to be in his office the second your sorry ass shows up. What'd you do?"

Well, that was fast. Coulson must've already been planning to bring the man in. He wondered who'd gotten the job of waking Fuller up at ass o'clock in the morning to inform him of his future as a SHIELD volunteer.

He hoped it was Natasha.

"Huh, must've found out I've been screwing his wife and daughter on Saturdays," Clint said with a bright grin and a wink to the worried man. He shrugged Street off and whistled cheerfully as he wandered out into Fuller's office. "Yo. Heard you wanted to talk with me?"

"Gamble," Fuller's eyes were furious and his voice was pitched not to carry outside of the room. "Shut the door and sit your ass down."

Clint complied and watched the man have a mental breakdown with a grin he didn't bother hiding, wishing he'd brought popcorn.

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Street looked equal parts pole-axed and disgusted as Clint stumbled out of his bathroom. Clint looked at the tiny scrap of cloth that was obviously women's underwear and recognized it as the pair Natasha had bled all over after some punk had gotten very, very lucky just before dying. Clint wondered how the fuck it'd ended up in the sagging mess of cushions he called a couch.

"Jesus, Jim. Don't you know better than to rummage through a man's couch?" Clint slurred his words and meandered through the apartment. Stumbling over air and ignoring the way Street twitched every time Clint came close to losing his balance. "Go the fuck home, man."

"You're tanked, Brian," Street still looked disgusted as he nudged the panties away with a boot. "Gotta make sure you don't drown in your own puke."

"Oh fuck you," Clint tripped face first into the mattress he called a bed and ignored the prickly feeling he got at leaving his back exposed with no one to watch it. Street didn't count, he was a civilian and didn't have a clue as to the dangers Clint dealt with. "Let me have my rockstar death."

Street snorted and Clint heard the couch groan. "Sure, and then I'll have to let the world discover your secret panty collection under your couch. What'd you do? Fuck 'em and run with the goods?"

"Hey, those're mine, you asshole," Clint turned his head to face most of the apartment and felt the crawling sensation relax. "Can't a guy feel pretty every once in a while without the peanut gallery chiming in?"

The silence was immediate and heavy and Clint closed his eyes cursing his own damn mouth. In Russian because Natasha wasn't there to do it for him. Street was a silent black hole in the room. His tenseness radiated outward and brought Clint up to high alert.

"Brian?" Street sounded uncertain and wary and a whole host of other things that Clint was just not going to deal with. No. No fucking way was he going to deal with it. He was undercover on a mission, and this right here was not part of the parameters of it. So he just wasn't even going to start on it.

He stayed silent and faked sleep until the sun rose and Street climbed off his couch. The floor creaked under his heavy feet and Clint tracked him as the man made his way to the bed. He relaxed and breathed evenly, feeling the weight of eyes on him as the seconds stretched into minutes. The air stirred around Clint's face and for a moment he almost panicked. Tension bled into his muscles despite his best effort and Clint knew he was seconds away from bolting when the floor creaked again.

Street left fairly quietly for a man not trained to be silent.

Clint was almost out of the bed when Natasha fell gracefully out of the open ceiling onto the mattress. He didn't bother being surprised that she was there, or wonder how long she might have been up there. "What-?"

Natasha held a hand up. Her fingers curled slightly as they hovered just over his cheek in a slow stroke before dropping. The motion was graceful and made him want to squirm. Clint fell back onto the bed. "Shit."

Natasha gracefully didn't mention how she'd called it months ago.

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Brain Gamble disappeared on his days off, and Clint resurfaced four hours away from LA in a SHIELD owned warehouse that was mostly used to house wrecked vehicles before they were shipped out to be fixed. Clint had equipped the place with eleven targets when he first arrived. There were closer to twenty now though.

Street was becoming a problem. Clint forced himself to think about it as he rolled across the hood of a firebombed sedan. Two arrows hit two different targets dead center.

Natasha had been needling Clint about the man's obvious interest for some time. Clint had pushed it off for longer than he should have as something the man would get over. A passing infatuation from an ex-military guy that'd amount to nothing.

It was an assumption that'd been proven wrong by the almost touch that Clint could still feel even days later. He rolled under a gutted HUMVEE and sprinted for the far side of the warehouse. Pushing himself as fast as he could just to feel the burn of it as he put an arrow into every target in his path.

Emotional attachments were fine on missions. SHIELD didn't care what, or who, Clint did so long as he did his job, and understood that whatever he had going was over with the mission.

Clint made an effort to keep attachments to the bare minimum whenever possible. He wasn't like Natasha. He couldn't turn it on and then turn it off as easily as she did. Hell, he felt guilty leaving behind people who called him friend never mind-

Clint cut a corner too close, clipping his elbow against a rusted tractor, and the arrow hit slightly left of center. "Fuck!"

The word echoed in the warehouse and Clint froze. He dropped into a crouch and edged back into the nearest shadow. Holding completely still. Breathing slowly and evenly despite how much his lungs begged for more air.

There it was, the thing Clint'd been trying so very hard to ignore. Street was interested alright, and so was Clint. The attraction had been inevitable really. The normal wonderings of any red-blooded man when he noticed someone's eyes lingering. Complicated by a string of late night bar hops, shitty diners, and even a trip to the dentist that Clint tried not to think about out of context.

Mentally, Clint placed a sentry up in the rafters of the warehouse and began to make his way back across the building. Slow and calculated to avoid detection.

The problem, as Nat had so cruelly pointed out, wasn't that Street was taking an interest in Clint, or that Clint wasn't as opposed to that interest as he claimed. It was that the man was taking an interest in _Gamble_ and in the real world that was a set up for a tragedy not a romantic comedy that ended well.

Clint breathed out and wormed his way under a low riding car, pausing to eye the open space between him and the exit. There was no way to cross it without being seen. There was another exit in the back that he could use. The crush of vehicles went up to the door itself, and almost guaranteed he wouldn't be detected.

"Fuck it," Clint was tired of crawling around already though. He rolled his last arrow between two fingers and mentally placed the sentry in his mind before sliding out into the open area. His bow was up and the arrow loosed almost before his eyes confirmed the sentry's position.

He hit the target attached to the industrial fans on the warehouse, dead center, and was out the door before his imagined enemy had the chance to fall. Sweaty and dusty, Clint stripped off his gear. Stowing it in the shitty car he'd picked up from an ad a year back.

Music blared from the radio for three seconds before he cut it off with a sharp jab. Clint sat behind the wheel and stared at the dusty road that'd lead him back to the highway, and back to LA.

Four hours. Clint shifted to drive, setting the time limit as the new parameter for his mission. He had four hours to come up with a plan.

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"Your plan is shitty," Natasha told him later, but she didn't say no. "I have a better plan."

"I came up with a plan first, so we're doing mine," Clint dodged a kick and got the feeling that she approved of the distance his plan would gain him. She'd never been one to tolerate most emotional attachments.

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The Chief of Police was a diehard Hydra agent. Clint wondered how the hell he'd made his way through the background checks and the public scrutiny for so long without that little fact pinging on anyone's radar. Coulson had sounded pleased over the phone about the facts that Fuller had managed to pull out, and Clint hoped like hell there wouldn't be a recruitment speech in the man's near future.

Clint shrugged the thought off and dragged Street out to a different bar. Just the two of them. It was crowded and dark, and Clint ignored the way Street stuck too close. Ignored the way his hands lingered when he bent to shout something in Clint's ear.

A flash of red caught his eye and Clint leaned away from where Street had him nearly pressed up against a wall to track Natasha as she pulled a stranger to the bar. Their eyes met and Clint reminded himself to trust her judgment as he gave a sly wink to Street. Drawing his attention to the pretty women at the bar, "You get the one on the left and I'll get the one on the right."

It was an awkward night. Street and the woman, Lara Boxer, smiled and flirted with very little heat. Their eyes wandering and their conversation stilted. Street was almost vibrating with the tense need to get away, and only Nat's vocal demanding of Clint's full attention kept the little party from breaking up too soon. She pulled them all along to the hotel room she'd rented for the night with little effort. Ignoring every attempt Street made to first extract Clint and run, and then ignoring the man's attempts to sneak away on his own.

Clint didn't get the chance to see the looks on Lara or Street's faces as they realized where this was going when the door shut behind them. Natasha used her speed and strength to put Clint onto the closest bed and straddled him with a wicked smirk. His jeans already open and pushed down just enough for her hands to shock an honest moan out of him.

The second bed creaked minutes or seconds after Clint groaned as she slid over him and around him. Slick and tight in the best possible ways. A tiny moan that wasn't Natasha's echoed in the room, and Clint hissed as she dug her nails into the side of his face. Forcefully keeping his head from turning to look.

"Don't," she whispered as she pulled him up into a filthy kiss. Her palms flat against his ears, muffling the growing noises he was hearing. "It's better this way."

"Yeah," Clint groaned as something hot and sick twisted inside him. He closed his eyes and let Natasha hold him still, let her block out his sense as she rode him hard and fast. Concentrating on the pleasure of the sex and not the dropping of his stomach. "Fuck, yeah."

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Street wasn't talkative at the best of times. He almost shut down entirely for a week after the hotel. Clint would've worried more about the man if he didn't still regularly call Clint an asshole for throwing things at his head.

If he didn't call _Brian_ an asshole.

Lara showed up at their regular bar four days into the week, and Clint was surprised to see her. Either Nat'd been meddling or the sex had been fantastic, because he didn't think the two of them had hit it off that well to begin with. He ignored the one long look Street gave him as he played pool and made sure to throw out a crude comment or three when Street left the bar with the woman.

Lara stuck around after that. Street stopped looking at Clint with anything but resignation in his eyes, and the stray touches stopped happening so frequently. Which was what he'd been going for in the end, plan successful. Natasha let him sleep one night on her lap. Her fingers soothing through his hair as neither of them talked about anything.

The mission went on.

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Fuller and Coulson were terrifying together. Clint took Natasha at her word when she reported about the lunch meetings the two had almost weekly. He tried to imagine what the men would talk about outside of the mission when Fuller called him in to give Brian Gamble his bi-weekly ass chewing.

"Your, handler," three years into this thing and the man still tripped over the terminology in a way that let Clint know exactly what the Captain had thought when he'd first heard the term, "has been talking about exit strategies."

Clint perked up, losing the habitual smirk he wore to see Fuller, "Yeah?"

"Your people are ready to make their move," Fuller sneered and flipped through a series of folders in a way that Clint knew meant the man was holding something back. Usually, his emotions. Aww, Fuller was going to miss him. "But not until you're out of the way."

"Awesome," Clint stretched out in the chair. It was about time. They'd had enough to take down the whole ring for five months now. "So, am I leaving in a body bag or what?"

"Do you know how much paper work that shit leaves me with?" Fuller barked out with a glare. The papers were dropped and irritation washed away any silly "softer" feelings the man might have had. "It's a God damned nightmare! Fuck you if you think I'm doing any of that for your scrawny ass. You're getting yourself fired like the mouthy little shit you are!"

"Aw," Clint cooed partly because it was expected of him and partly because he was just that kind of an asshole, "you're going to _miss_ me!"

"Shut up and get out of my office!" Fuller roared. Loud enough to have the guys outside snickering into their coffee and donuts. Clint grinned and slid out of the office. Fuller's voice blaring out just before the door closed, "And do some fucking work for once, Gamble! Make it look like you're earning that paycheck we give you!"

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"A month," Natasha gave him the timeline as she carefully traced over Brian Gamble's tattoos with jagua ink.

"Coulson got a plan?" Clint laid back and admired the cobwebs that'd taken up residence in the far corner of the apartment. They were intricate and pretty enough to look at in the dim light of the morning. Which was the only reason the two of them had been careful not to disturb them when climbing up the ceiling.

"Hit and run was his first plan," Nat flicked the brush she'd used this time. Adding minuscule flourishes to the design that'd stayed static for years. "Fuller got him to reconsider. They're looking into administrative dismissal. Something ugly and public."

"To be a fly on the wall for that conversation," Clint grinned as he failed to imagine someone other than Fury making Coulson back down from a plan.

Natasha hummed, eyes flickering to his briefly before going back to her work. "He might have also been acting on intel about certain attachment issues with Brian Gamble."

"Nat," Clint sucked in a sharp breath and closed his eyes for the exhale. "You didn't."

"He had to know," Nat didn't sound sorry or regretful in the least, and Clint didn't really expect her to. He'd known her too long to expect that. "You know Street would have been an issue."

He would. A year into a live in arrangement with Lara, looking at fucking engagement rings, and Clint knew that Street would still be an issue. Clint ignored the hollow feeling in his gut as his mind finally caught onto the fact that he was about to be pulled out, away from Street. "He'll be an issue either way, Nat."

"Not if you give him a good reason not be an issue."

"No," Clint opened his eyes and stared up into cold steel. The grip on his arm tightened enough to be painful. "_No_, Natasha."

"Yes," there was no give in her face as she stared him down. "You're done Clint. This mission is _over_. It's time to destroy all your ties here and go back. You're not the only one who'll end up hurt if you don't. You know that."

And Clint did. Street was a good man, a good cop, and a loyal friend. No matter what out Clint took, no matter what excuse he gave, the man would be there. Calling him _Brian_ and sticking his nose into things that'd get him killed way too easily.

Clint unclenched his fists and closed his eyes. "This sucks."

Natasha rubbed away the bloodless, crescent moons his nails had bit into his palms and said nothing.

.

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Natasha's initial plan to get Street to back off had been as simple and shitty as Clint's, and filled with about twenty more times mind fuckery. Clint wondered as he dragged an unprotesting Street to a bar if it would've been simpler in the long run for him if he'd taken her advice in the first place.

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"So, so fucking," Street laughed as Clint poured him onto the bed. He bounced on the mattress, still sputtering about a lame joke from an hour ago. His face was flushed red with alcohol and he looked damn good on Clint's bed. "Muffins!"

"Yeah, buddy," Clint swallowed thickly, preparing himself for the hurt that was coming as he knelt down to drag Street's boots off. He wished he could be exactly as drunk as he was pretending to be. "Muffins. Aint't they a bitch?"

Street laughed and there wasn't a single bit of tension or wariness in his body as Clint slid the man's belt off. Fingers working open the fly button of the man's jeans far too easily. Clint almost worried that he'd poured too much alcohol down Street's throat before the man choked on a laugh.

Street struggled up onto his elbows and gaped down at Clint with fuzzy but still alert eyes. Clint let him stare as he worked Street's jeans down his thighs. Not caring that it caught on his boxers and dragged them down enough to reveal a dark trail of hair and sharp hipbones. "What're you doing?"

"What's it look like I'm doing?" Clint didn't wince as he gave a patented and practiced Brian Gamble leer up at Street. His fingers curling under the elastic of the boxers and dragging those down even further. Unsurprised by the thick dick he'd seen too many times out of the corner of his eyes in the locker room, but not totally prepared for the surge of want that filled him. Almost strong enough to cancel out the way his chest was _aching_.

"You," Street had nothing to say. Only stared in disbelief as Clint ran his hands up his exposed thighs. Fingers curling around the hardening dick before Clint leaned down and kissed the tip. Street collapsed with a groan onto the bed. "Oh fuck, Bri-"

Clint swallowed him down all the way, sucking hard enough to make Street buck and nearly scream. He had to back off as Street's dick grew fully hard and threatened to gag him. He wrapped his left hand around the base and twisted as he began to bob his head. Riding the sharp buck of Street's hips easily.

"Oh fuck! Wait, wait," Street's fingers scrabbled through Clint's hair. Trying and failing to find purchase. Clint swallowed, and Street nearly keened. "Slow down. Fuck! Brian, slow the fuck down! I'm gonna."

_Good_. Clint closed his eyes and groaned, listening to the incoherent sounds the vibration drew from Street. Using every dirty little trick he'd learned to get the man off hard and fast. Clint sucked harder, edging into painful territory just slightly, but that little edge Clint knew would be enough to make it all better.

"Fuck, yes!" Street nearly screamed and Clint choked as the man bucked up hard. The only warning he got before his mouth was filled with come. Clint coughed and turned his head away. His hand taking over, stroking Street through his orgasm, and feeling the warm slide of come dripping down his face. "Brian!"

Clint pressed his face hard into Street's thigh, his breath coming faster than it had any right to be. He wanted to turn back and lick the man clean. Get every last bit of him in his mouth and do it all over again. His jeans popped open, and Clint hissed as he got a hand on his dick. Stripping his erection hard and fast and not giving one damn for what was coming next.

"Shit! Come on," Street's fingers pulled Clint's head back, his voice awed as Clint shut his eyes tight. Refusing to look as he felt his orgasm build up far faster than it should. "Lemme see. Let me see you Brian."

Clint whined at the words and panted as Street's rough fingers dragged across his face. Thumb catching against his lips and Clint opened his mouth to suck it in. Tongue flat against the pad and tasting skin and salt as Clint bucked up into his own hand. Fingers tight as he twisted his hand just under the head of his dick, catching the sensitive spot with each stroke

"Look at me. Brian, look at me," Street urged. Thumb pressing down on his tongue. Street's other hand played with the cooling spunk on his face, drawing patterns and rubbing it into Clint's skin. "Brian, please."

Clint groaned and bit down on the thumb in his mouth as he came hard. Almost chewing on Street's hand as he milked himself dry. His come painting the side of the mattress and pooling onto the floor. Leaving Clint wrung out and gasping. Held up by Street's hands cradling his face.

"Fuck, yes, Brian," Street's voice was rough and Clint could feel the words puff against his face as Street shifted under Clint's upper body. "This. That was-"

Clint Barton drew in a deep breath smelling sweat and sex and Street's sharp aftershave.

Brian Gamble blew that breath out with a sneer and opened his eyes.

.

.

Clint didn't sleep in the bed again. He spent a week twisted around the exposed spring from the couch and Natasha's bony elbows when she joined him. Her hands were always cool against his head and chest when they curled together and didn't talk. At all.

.

.

"Stay flexible," Coulson said over the phone, and Clint almost smiled to hear the big band music playing lowly in the background. Surprised to find that he'd missed hearing it so much. "Something will come up, and you'll need to take advantage of it."

_"Hope that fuck was better for you than it was for me."_

"I don't want any details," Fuller was stressed and lashed out at the slightest provocation. Keeping Clint in his office longer and more often. Building up a record of behavioral problems for Gamble. "Just don't fuck this shit up!"

_"Better have gotten it out of your system cause you're not getting it again."_

"There's a situation," Natasha's voice was muffled and Clint could make out the echo of screams and gunshots through the phone. "Take the shot when you have it."

_"Fucking fag."_

.

.

Tension ran high when the call went out for SWAT. No one noticed the extra edge between Street and Clint. The awkward fumbles between the two men who used to work almost flawlessly together. The way Clint didn't quite meet Street's eyes, or the decidedly cool edge to Street's words.

It was a little painful and a lot dangerous going into a situation with their broken dynamics, but when Clint saw a familiar face -not struggling as hard to escape as he knew she could- he only felt relief. It wasn't the first time Clint had to shoot another agent for a mission, and wasn't even high up there on the list of the worst things he'd done for SHIELD.

The play that followed was a relief to Clint. Cementing Gamble's end. The final act could have gone better though. It'd taken some surprisingly dickish words to get Street to lash out with some of the anger that'd been simmering between them. Clint stalked out aching from the punch Street hadn't took and glad to leave Brian Gamble behind.

.

.


End file.
